


you were never at rest, you were always somewhere bound

by the_everqueen



Series: the conservatory au [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Pianists, reference to classical composers as flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 10:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13785732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_everqueen/pseuds/the_everqueen
Summary: the chance encounter George would never forget





	you were never at rest, you were always somewhere bound

**Author's Note:**

> [herowndeliverance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen) requested George/Rachel; this is the Conservatory au edition of her An Aegis Very Essential. <3
> 
> title from radical face's "the moon is down"

There is no escaping the music.

George laughs at himself, covers it with a sip of his drink. He isn’t sure what else he expected. It’s a bar, of course there would be music. If he wanted silence, he could have stayed in his hotel room. But maybe he wasn’t expecting this: live entertainment, a baby grand shoved into the corner, a woman at the bench playing something bluesy. 

The place is a hole-in-the-wall, not quite a dive. The kind of establishment with more regulars than strays, men in the back smoking thick cigars and watching the newcomer with hooded eyes. George found it by accident, wandering out from the hotel in the wake of his afternoon concert. Thought it preferable to the neon-blaring tourist traps. He’s realizing, though, that he is the intruder here, seated alone, his black blazer setting him apart from the linen suits, the worn leather jackets. He thinks his initial plan — find a bar, have a few drinks, get a cab back — might need an amendment. 

The woman at the piano catches his eye and, as if reading his thoughts, gives him a private, amused smirk.

George orders another rye whiskey.

He can’t not listen to her play. He’s spent too many years dissecting his own performances to ignore the nuances of others, and after giving a masterclass that morning, his mind automatically goes to picking apart technique and phrasing. Her set isn’t in his repertoire, but he can recognize talent. She plays as though each note is precious, the slow melodic line drawn out achingly tender. There’s something exposed about the whole thing, like a self turned inside out, the kind of performance George has never been able to replicate. 

He wants to hear her take on Saint-Saens.

His options are as follows: finish his drink and get a ride back to the hotel where he’ll order room service and wait for sleep.

Or move closer to the piano.

“You’re very good,” he comments, as she starts a more lively piece.

She smiles. 

“Where did you learn?”

She gives a slight shake of her head, dark waves brushing her face. It occurs to him she might not speak English: the men with the cigars are exchanging words in Spanish, and George didn’t miss the Cuban flag behind the bar. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume…” He stumbles trying to remember high school Spanish and the words to apologize.

“Just because I can multitask doesn’t mean Carlos is paying me enough to talk and play at the same time.”

George blinks. “What?”

The woman does not miss a beat on the samba rhythm she’s comping in her left hand. She says in clear, accented English, “Do you hit on the background music at all the bars?”

“I, I’m not —”

“Is fine. That’s a smooth line, ‘where did you learn?’ Usually I get men asking if I can give them lessons.”

“I don’t need lessons.”

“Ah, the lines keep coming.”

George wants to protest. He wasn’t looking for some casual dalliance; yes, the thick swoop of her eyelashes and the sharp corner of her mouth were attractive, but his question had been sincere. Instead, he takes another sip of whiskey. “I haven’t heard anything like your playing.”

“Mm, that one was close to being a not-compliment.”

“You’re talented.”

“Getting warmer.”

“To an insult or a better compliment?”

“I’ll let you know when it’s more definitive.”

George laughs, once, short and surprised. “Do you play other kinds of music?”

“I don’t think the other patrons would appreciate Mozart.”

“Do you? Like Mozart?”

“I think my time could be spent in better ways.”

“What about listening?”

“What did I just say?”

“I heard.” George watches her fingers slow, taking a  _ ritardando _ into a rich adagio section, sensuous and full of slipped scale degrees. She isn’t playing from sheet music; she tips her head forward for a cadence, lips barely parted. “Improvisation?”

“Composition. All music is just patterns, memorize the pieces and you can make a whole.”

And what if you get caught in the patterns? What if you can’t make something beyond a pastiche? He does not ask these questions, but says, “It’s not that simple.”

She shrugs.

A big, muscled man comes over, leans on the closed piano lid. “Rachel, this dude bothering you?”

“I haven’t stopped, have I.”

“Don’t pay you to talk.”

“She made that clear,” George says. “I apologize, I can —”

“You’re fine.” Rachel adds something in Spanish, directed at Carlos, her sharp tone at odds with the honey-sweet melody she’s pouring out of the keys. He aims rapid-fire back at her, but she cuts him off, delivers some riposte that makes him step back. He gives George a once-over, holds up his hands palms-out:  _ hey man, i’m not looking for trouble. _

George turns back to her. “Is this a problem?”

“No.”

“I don’t want to get you —”

“You won’t.”

George nods. She goes back to the samba rhythm, rounding out the ABA form.

“I like Russians,” she says, when the dance music has spun out and she’s moved on to something looser, more relaxed. “Rachmaninoff, Prokofiev, Scriabin. They have bite, they are intense. Hearts on their sleeve.”

George has never been described as heart-on-sleeve; one critic for the New York Times called him a “marble masterpiece, no sign of the sculptor’s warmth beneath the facade.” That was when Lawrence — well. When Lawrence was around. George assumed the critic meant his brother as the sculptor — he had, in so many ways, made George into the performer he was now — but maybe not, maybe  _ sculptor _ meant something ineffable, intangible. The same sort of thing that draws him to Rachel.

“What about the French?”

“What about them?”

“I’m performing Saint-Saens tomorrow,” George tells her, like a confession. “At the University. Guest concert.”

She narrows her eyes. “Which Saint-Saens?”

“Piano Concerto. G minor.”

“Hmm.”

“You could come. It’s open to the public.”

She smiles at that, though the expression doesn’t reach her eyes. “Is this your idea of a date?”

“I just thought you might enjoy it.”

“I haven’t even heard you play.”

“It’s a free concert.”

“I have work.”

“On a Tuesday?”

“I’m working now, aren’t I? And you’re here, what does that say about you?”

“That I had a very long and unproductive masterclass with a group of students who are playing repertoire entirely disproportionate to their skill levels.” 

Rachel snorts. “You didn’t even introduce yourself.”

“George Washington.”

Lingering on a chord, she gives him a shrewd look. George holds her gaze; this is a test of some sort, he’s certain. 

She looks down at her hands. Seems to come to a resolution: she smiles at him, sharp and daring and beautiful. “I get off in an hour.”

He says, “I can wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr @the-everqueen


End file.
